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Irian woke up. He saw the Prince, dead at his feet, with a strange sword in the body. The blood collecting was the color of a lake. He looked at Namid, at Thor, and he began to run. He was faster than either of them, easily, and neither could follow him. Namid called to him, and he looked back over his shoulder, a hitch in his stride, and mouthed “find me,” and then carried on, at a pace none could match. Not even Hariel, used as he was to the wilds, could match the still aether-fueled speeds of Irian.

Elanor was gone, the twins were dead, someone had killed the Prince and Irian had fled. Namid was all alone with Thor, who was still in shock. The Prince’s pocket was vibrating. Namid murmured a prayer of speeding for the fallen warrior and reached into the pocket. Her brother’s face appeared on the screen of the device she pulled out.

“He’s dead, he’s dead and he’s gone and they’re gone and she’s gone and and and-”

Ouray spoke sharply in their native language. Namid’s eyes narrowed and she simply said “Irian’s left us.”

“What? Why?”

“Poisoned. By Elanor. Who tricked someone extremely powerful into killing the Prince. No, there’s no chance he’s just knocked out.” She turned the camera on the device toward the body of the Prince. Ouray gasped. “What about the rest of you?”

She pressed the panic button on the communicator and dropped it by the feet of Thor, who was still not processing anything. She knelt, examined the tracks made by Irian (easy to follow, there was so much blood) and gave chase.

Far ahead, Irian was running blindly. He stumbled along, unarmed, his micromail hanging from him in tatters. He shed it and kept going. He smelled salt. He followed it. Salt meant the sea. The sea meant Manawydan. manawydan, he thought, meant revenge. He ran for what seemed like forever. Even his aether-suffused muscles would give, and they nearly did, before Irian saw the shore. As he laid eyes upon it, he collapsed, and fell into a deep sleep.